Gallifreyan Tyr-ridan
by ArkTaisch
Summary: The Three-faced God made the mistake of choosing the ancient Gallifreyans to serve as its bulwark against the primordial evil of Caramel Darkling. Now, after millions of years of procrastination and denial, the final battle is nigh. If the universe is lucky, the three prophesied avatars of God known as the Tyr-ridan will show up for the fight. (AU)
1. Those who run away

**Author's Notes:** This story takes place in an alternate universe for Doctor Who using elements from the "Chronicles of the Kencyrath" novels by P. C. Hodgell. In this universe, Gallifreyans were the chosen people instead of the Kencyrath. It's the Cookie Apocalypse and Doctor Who, so evil grandmas, violence, death, suffering, and angst are par for the course. Why? Because it occurred to me one day that Jame and the Doctor have many similarities, as do the Kencyrath and the Time Lords (time-travel, dimensional engineering, psychic powers) and it would be funny if the Doctor had tentacles as a Shanir trait rather than cute-but-murderous kitty-cat claws. And since I still don't know exactly what "Perimal Darkling" is, it might as well be primordial evil cookie dough that eats whole universes.

In my head-canon, the 12th Doctor portion of this story takes place some time after my previous story, "Clinging to the Broken Strands of Time", but it's gone waaaaay AU in this installment.

(cross-posted from Ao3)

 **Content notes:** Violence, death, some continuity based on various Big Finish audios and Doctor Who spin-off novels, possible spoilers for up to the end of Series 9 of Doctor Who.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who, Cookie Clicker, the Kencyrath, eldritch horrors beyond mortal comprehension, or anything else I borrow for this story. I'm just writing it for my own amusement while waiting for the next season of DW and/or the next Kencyrath book to come out. No disrespect intended to P. C. Hodgell.

* * *

 _"Some would be inspired, some would run away, and some would go mad."_ — _The Doctor ("The Sound of Drums")_

* * *

He ran.

Forced to look into the Untempered Schism by his elders and guardians, the boy had sensed — something — looking back at him out of the raw, chaotic depths of the time vortex. Unspeakable knowledge flooded his mind. It woke that which had lain dormant in him for the first eight years of his life. Seized by unreasoning terror, he ran into the wastelands, dodging his guardians with unholy speed.

They caught him anyway. Of course they did.

The flying machine descended out of the night sky. Merciless headlights pinned the boy in their blinding white glare, leaving him nowhere to hide. He huddled shivering on the ground, gravel digging into his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself in a futile effort to conceal the writhing mass of tendrils newly sprouted from his torso. Weak and frail, they sent a torrent of unaccustomed sensory input into his mind.

He could only gasp helplessly as gloved hands dragged him upright and tore apart his clothes. His arms were wrenched free and twisted behind his back, his wrists caught in an iron grip. The shreds of his shirt flapped open, revealing the mutation. The air was rough and chill in its flow over the damp skin of the freshly birthed tentacles. The boy felt hideously exposed.

One of his guardians stepped forward, eyes hidden behind a dark visor. "Damn the fates. Another one. I had hoped — but no. Everyone saw. He's god-spawn, unclean. There's nothing we can do for him."

The man holding the boy's wrists answered, his voice flat and distant, "They'll take him in at the Farm, if the operation is successful."

"And the odds on that?" His guardian's tone of disappointment was muted by age and weariness.

"A ninety-five percent survival rate according to the latest statistics. The healing bandages should prevent any physical scarring. Mentally... well, they'll have him in quarantine for three months for monitoring."

"But the chance of full rehabilitation— " His guardian bit off the end of the sentence and shook his head.

"Not very high, my lord," admitted the man. "Less than ten percent of those admitted. But the law is the law."

"So be it. Curse this tainted blood." His guardian flapped a hand in dismissal. "Let the Farm have him!"

The boy cried out in shock as understanding hit him. "Quences, no, please! Don't send me away."

"Filthy Shanir," spat his guardian, his disappointment flaring into rage as he turned his gaze onto the boy. "In the name of Lungbarrow, I cast you out. Blood and bone, you are no kin of mine."

The boy turned pleading eyes towards his other guardian, but she stood with her back to him, rejection plain in the stiff line of her spine and the rigid set of her shoulders. Her mind was cold, sealed off with a single thought: his name would never be spoken in her house again.

It was a law laid down by Lord Rassilon millions of years ago at the end of the Dark Times. Shanir traits were deemed antithetical to the new age of rationality, and so the boy's newborn tentacles were amputated at the root. His memories were blocked down to the cellular level to prevent any chance of recurrence, a forgetting strong enough to last more than a single lifetime, even through regeneration. The boy knew that he had lost something. He knew that he was damned as a Shanir. But no one would tell him more than that. He decided, then, that if they wouldn't answer his questions, he wouldn't answer theirs, either.

Silence became his only effective tool of protest. He settled into a mute defiance that lasted through the three months of quarantine. By the time they released him to the Farm, officially signing him over into the custody of the Housekeeper (he heard the other children address her as "Auntie Cleppetty") and the Caretaker, silence had become deeply-rooted habit. When he refused to name himself, the others took to calling him "Wormhole". Only his cousin Innocet (the sole point of continuity between his old life and this nightmare) still called him "Snail", as she had for as long as he could remember.

The resident bully, an older boy called Torvic, took his silence as a challenge. The children were protected by the teachers while they were in class, but when they were sent out to work in the fields, they were vulnerable to each other. Torvic took advantage of this freedom to corner the new boy whenever he could and cement his place at the bottom of the hierarchy.

Because the boy refused to break his silence, Torvic persisted in his efforts to break _him_. "What are you, freak?"

"Maybe he's a maledight. Maybe that's why he's scared to talk," suggested one of the other boys. Most of them followed Torvic out of fear, but this one clung to his shadow, hoping to share his glamour. His toadying ways had earned him the privilege of always standing behind Torvic's left shoulder, making him less likely to be targeted by Torvic's own powers.

"Oh, is he?" sneered Torvic. "Well, freak, ill-wish me if you have the guts. Go on, don't hold back."

The boy kept his mouth clamped shut. He wasn't, he wasn't a maledight, an ill-speaker. He would know if he had any power to curse someone. Wouldn't he? But the holes in his memories frightened him with their vague hints of danger. His eyes darted around, seeking any escape, but the others formed a ring around him. His hearts sank: he knew what would come next, just as it had so many times before.

They were gathered at the edge of one of the outer fields. A swell of land hid them from sight of the cluster of buildings at the heart of the Farm. The boy clutched a hoe with both hands. It made a poor weapon, but it was all he had. They had come upon him undetected, someone's Shanir power cloaking them with a sort of invisibility. He suspected Torvic's sidekick, the one he mentally dubbed "the Toad".

"Well?" Torvic advanced a step, the Toad his eager shadow, eyes avid for conflict.

"Look at him, skiving off again," said the Toad. "You ought to teach him a lesson."

The boy raised his hoe in protest, shaking off the small clumps of dirt as evidence of work. He had been weeding between the rows of the rugosa field, only taking a moment off to stretch his back.

Torvic took another step and let his foot land on top of a rugosa plant. It was still small with only a fortnight's growth, a fragile collection of tender leaves. He paused, smiled, then deliberately ground the leaves under his boot.

The boy stifled a gasp, his eyes widening, but he still didn't say anything.

"What's that? Speak up!" Torvic made as if to tread on another plant. His eyes glowed a malevolent crimson.

The boy instinctively thrust the hoe forward to stop him.

Torvic caught the metal blade of the hoe in his hand. "Time take you!" An instant later, the blade trickled away through his fingers in a shower of rust.

The boy stumbled back in horror, flinching away as Torvic pointed a finger at him. It brushed his shirt, and one of the buttons cracked and burst in a puff of dry dust. He fumbled with the haft of the hoe, trying to fend the older boy away, but it was no use: at Torvic's touch, wood blackened, splintered, came undone in his hands. In his hurry to get away, the boy tripped and fell onto his back. He would be next; he could sense Torvic gathering power for another curse.

"Stop! Stop this at once!" A familiar voice cut through the air between them. Cousin Innocet. Her shadow fell across the boy. He saw Torvic backing away, his look of triumph fading to uncertainty. "Leave him alone."

Shanir clashed with Shanir, Innocet's will set against Torvic's. Though Innocent was half a head shorter and three years younger, it was Torvic who gave way first. His face sullen, he spat onto the ground at Innocet's feet, then turned and stalked off. His circle of followers slunk after him.

The boy twisted his neck to glance up at his cousin. She had her right hand raised, palm outwards to face Torvic. She stared after him until he was out of sight on the other side of the hill. Finally, she lowered her hand and reached to help the boy to his feet, tsking at his bedraggled state, brushing the dirt off his clothes. "You shouldn't let him bully you, Snail. You're as strong as he is, really."

The boy stared at her in disbelief, then glanced meaningly at the pile of blackened splinters and sawdust that was all that remained of the hoe.

Innocet sighed. "He's a maledight without enough control to hide it. He knows he'll never get out of here with a certificate, so he's taking it out on the rest of us."

The boy scowled at his feet. Innocet caught the doubt in his thoughts and patted him on the shoulder.

"You'll be all right, once you get used to it. Never mind the weeds, let's go inside. You missed supper." She took him back to the house. Under her authority, earned through her years of trustworthy behavior, they were let into the library, Innocet's favored haunt. She found him a sewing kit and a replacement for his button and set him in an armchair. "Mend the shirt. It's important to keep up appearances. They don't leave us much else at the Farm."

While the boy threaded a needle and poked it clumsily through the holes in the button, his cousin browsed along the walls of the library. The shelves were filled with primitive books made of sheets of wood pulp. Everything in the room had the enforced simplicity typical of the Farm — the Time Lords kept their advanced technology safely away from the untamed Shanirs. Once the boy had finished repairing his shirt, Innocet rewarded him by reading aloud from her favorite volume of ancient history. It was one of the boring political passages, with nothing about space battles or aliens. Within a few minutes, he had drifted off to sleep, snuggled into the ample cushions of the oversized armchair.

By the time he woke, she was gone, summoned to other duties. Without her comforting presence, everything felt cold and forbidding. He crept out of the library and wended his way through the house to the boy's dormitory. He paused with his hand on the door handle: Torvic would be in there, along with his gang of followers. A sick dread sank into his belly. He couldn't. Not tonight.

He slept that night alone in the barn, shivering under a blanket, finding the darkness and solitude less oppressive than the other boys. Shanir powers. He wished he did have Shanir powers, wished for his cousin's apparent ability to shield herself — and him — from Torvic's maledictions. Whatever deformity they had removed from him, it had been bad enough that they wouldn't even let him remember it. Nothing as harmless as a head of white hair or glowing eyes or fangs. It must be one of the Unspeakable Taints hinted at in the books. Innocet had told him that they only had the censored versions at the Farm. The full editions were locked away in the Citadel of the Time Lords.

A few days later, he found himself straying to the edge of the Farm's territory. A strip of woodland marked the boundary, which the children were forbidden to cross. The boy headed straight into the trees, hoping that Torvic wouldn't dare follow him. It was only a ten-minute walk to cross the wood. He found a meadow of tall red grass on the other side. Auntie Cleppetty had told him once that it belonged to the estate of a high-ranking Time Lord, but the boy didn't know his name.

When he spied a child of about his own age playing in the distance, curiosity lured him to trespass further. A son, he guessed, or a favorite niece or grandchild, judging by the fancy clothing. At first he thought the child was alone. On closer inspection, he realized that he — it looked like a boy — was directing two smaller children in a game of "let's pretend". He grinned, recognizing a scene from one of Innocet's fairy tales.

An eyeblink later, the two smaller children had vanished. He gasped.

The remaining boy spun around, a shocked and guilty expression flashing across his face before he recovered his equilibrium.

"You're Shanir!" The startled instinctive recognition jolted the words out of the trespasser. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice after so long without speech. He rubbed his throat, suddenly self-conscious.

"No, I'm Koschei," answered the other boy with remarkable self-possession. "You must be one of the boys from the Farm."

He nodded dumbly.

"Got a name?"

He shook his head. Everyone at the Farm was disinherited. In his case, his family had made it retroactive, stripping him of his identity. _It was made forbidden when... when they cast me out._ It was easier to think the words.

"Don't do that," commanded Koschei. "Father says telepathy is vulgar."

Vulgar? The boy hung his head, scuffing the dirt with a toe. He saw how old and worn out his shoes were, with the soles starting to come loose again after his last haphazard repair attempt. For the first time, he understood Innocet's admonition about appearances. A word from Koschei, and his father's servants would have no qualms about forcibly ejecting the boy. If they told the Caretaker, the boy would be doubly punished, once for leaving the grounds and again by Torvic for daring to run away.

"You look fairly harmless," said Koschei at last, when the boy didn't seem likely to break the silence. "Father says it's not safe for me to have social interactions outside House and Family, but I'm his only child. I can invite whomever I like."

The boy glanced up for a moment, surprised. Koschei was lonely. He tried to hide it, but the boy saw. It was a loneliness too familiar for him to mistake.

"So? Do you want me to?" Koschei cocked his head, regarding the boy curiously, only a hint of longing reaching his voice.

The boy nodded.

Koschei broke into a wide grin. "Brilliant. So, what should I call you?"

The boy thought about it. Not "Wormhole", that was Torvic's hateful nickname when he wasn't calling him "Freak". Not "Snail", either, that was a nursery name, and he wasn't an infant anymore. Then he remembered the designation on his admission form to the Farm. A name for the nameless.

"Theta Sigma," he said softly, his voice still sounding strange in his ears. "You can call me 'Theta Sigma'."


	2. Destruction begins with love

_"Father says destruction begins with love." — Koschei to Theta (conversations that never happened)_

* * *

"Where did you slither off to, Wormhole?" Torvic and his gang caught up with the boy the next day during their afternoon break. "Think you're too good for us, you and that stuck-up cousin of yours?"

The boy shook his head, not meeting Torvic's eyes. Both of them were well aware that Innocet was currently tied up in kitchen duties and unable to interfere. But whatever happened, he wouldn't tell the bullies anything. He was relieved that they let him off with a beating. They didn't even draw blood or break any bones, this time. They had, once, to "test his Shanir powers". The boy wasn't sure if he had been disappointed or relieved to heal no faster than anyone else of his race. But bruises would fade quickly, and after a few moments to catch his breath, he limped away and resumed his chores, studiously ignoring the pitying glances from the other children whose paths he crossed.

"I told you he wouldn't dare kill you," Innocet said to him later, wiping off his face with a wet cloth, making him presentable for supper.

Maybe. The boy wasn't convinced. He thought of Irrithia, the boy with the mechanical leg. The Time Lords did not withhold medical care from their Shanir outcasts, only advanced technology. The missing leg should have been regenerated. Instead, it was only a primitive contraption of plastic and metal, not even linked properly to Irrithia's nervous system. Torvic had once cursed that leg to rot, and now no flesh could withstand the power of that curse. Any biological replacement shriveled and died.

The Toad had told the boy the story in gleeful whispers soon after he arrived at the Farm, when he was trapped in the infirmary after Torvic had broken both his arms (thankfully using only physical force). He hadn't believed it at first, but later, seeing how Irrithia flinched whenever Torvic so much as glanced at him, he wasn't sure. He tried once to enlist Irrithia's help against their common enemy, but Irrithia only shook his head in frantic refusal.

"Leave him alone," Innocet had told the boy in a low voice, pulling him away.

 _It's true? Torvic..._

 _That was years ago, before I was here, when Torvic and Irrithia were very young. He knows better than to try anything like that now,_ replied Innocet.

Maybe he wouldn't. The boy still wasn't convinced. At least Innocet was here today to shield him through the rest of the evening. After supper, she took him to the library again.

"Snail— " she began.

The boy tugged on her hand, interrupting her. He reached for her thoughts, letting her know of his decision to use his official designation from now on.

"'Theta Sigma'?" Innocet sighed, shaking her head. "A Shanir name."

 _So what? If Omega wasn't ashamed of bearing a Shanir name, why should I be?_

"It was different for him," said Innocet. Omega had been one of the three founders of Time Lord civilization, and the naming convention for Shanir had been established in his honor after his death. "When you leave the Farm— "

 _If I live that long_ , thought Theta Sigma, sinking into the depths of the armchair.

"Do you really want to throw your differences in everyone's face?"

 _Why not? If they won't let me forget it, why should I let them forget?_

"Stubborn and confrontational as usual — Theta." Innocet smiled slightly. "But I'm glad to see you recover some of your old spirit."

Theta squirmed. _I'm not... never mind._

"Just try to stay out of Torvic's way." Innocet looked at him sternly. "Oh, here.." She reached down and touched him on the forehead. "Your novelty value must have worn off by now, so maybe this will do some good."

Theta blinked, confused by a moment of double vision, seeing himself through her eyes. Then his eyes cleared, and he understood. It was a Shanir gift of foresight that she shared with him. Torvic wouldn't catch him by surprise anymore. _Oh! Thank you._

After that, it was simply a matter of evading Torvic for the next two weeks until Theta had his free day again. Instead of hiding in the barn or the library or any of the other obscure nooks and crannies around the farm, he slipped across the boundary wood again to find Koschei. The other boy welcomed him with a broad grin before he remembered the dignity of his position and pulled a serious face. "Theta Sigma."

"Koschei," answered Theta. Had Koschei been waiting for him? He was afraid to ask.

"Well, come on, I'll show you the house. This way!" Koschei took off across the pasture, carelessly dashing past the small herd of Gallifreyan cattle that grazed on the red grass.

Theta raced after him, caught off guard by Koschei's enthusiasm.

Koschei slowed at last as they approached a glittering tower of polished stone and dark glass. It was the Citadel in miniature, far grander than Theta's childhood home. Lungbarrow was ancient and dusty, full of gossip and half-forgotten tradition. Quences had been forced to scrape and scheme to get a handful of the Cousins into the Academy, fighting his own family's social inertia. Koschei's father, on the other hand, sat on the High Council of the Time Lords, and expected no less from his son. His house was a monument to his ambition, the edges sharp, the corners brightly lit, with not a single thought out of place.

No wonder Koschei felt the need to escape, thought Theta, feeling hopelessly grubby as he crossed the threshold.

"Just this one time," whispered Koschei breathlessly as he led Theta through the interior labyrinth. Clever (and expensive) dimensional engineering made the most of limited space.

"One time... what?" asked a bewildered Theta.

"The formal presentation, of course," hissed Koschei. "So that you'll be protected by the laws of Housepitality. Now hush, we're almost there."

A servant (even the android servitors were of a more sophisticated design than the ones at Lungbarrow) took them in hand, opening the door to Koschei's father's audience chamber. Theta stumbled in, too stunned to look Koschei's father in the face. He had a vague impression of a tall, imposing Time Lord presence. He barely heard as Koschei introduced them. Only when Koschei nudged him in the ribs did Theta manage to stammer out the correct words of appreciation traditional for a House guest. After that, he fled the stifling atmosphere of House Oakdown as soon as he could do so without causing mortal offense.

"God, Theta, you're such a Shabogan," said Koschei once they were safely outside. Then he burst out laughing.

Theta flushed, unable to deny it. The majority of the children at the Farm did end up as Shabogans, as the Gallifreyan underclass were known. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize," wheezed Koschei, sticking his fist in his mouth to still his guffaws. "It was perfect. I thought Father's head was going to explode."

 _If you're just using me to annoy your precious father_ — Theta was suddenly angry, his precarious grasp on spoken language deserting him. He turned around and started back across the meadow.

"Wait, wait, where are you going?" Koschei grabbed the back of his collar.

Theta yanked himself free. _I'm leaving_.

Koschei circled around in front of Theta, holding up a hand when the latter tried to shift away again. "No, no, I'm the one who should apologize. I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes I can't stand it at home, and I thought if for once it was my choice..."

"Your choice?" Theta said, teeth grinding on the words. "What about mine?"

"What about it? You came here, didn't you?" Koschei stared at him, suddenly looking utterly lost. "I thought that meant... meant..."

"Meant what?"

Koschei lowered his gaze, his voice nearly inaudible as he answered, "Meant that you wanted to be friends."

"Friends?" echoed Theta, the word sounding alien in his mind.

"Yes, 'friends'. I've read about them in books," said Koschei, half-sarcastic, half-serious. "Are you familiar with the concept?"

"Y-yes, of course." It was far more than Theta had expected from someone with Koschei's background of wealth and power. Koschei wanting a plaything or a temporary companion, he would have understood, but a friend was something else again. Theta glanced up to find Koschei staring at him anxiously.

"Is that 'yes' you know what a friend is, or 'yes', you do want to be friends?" asked Koschei, all traces of laughter gone from his face.

"Both!" Theta started to extend his arm for the traditional rite of friendship, then hesitated, wondering if that was another archaic custom maintained at Lungbarrow but scorned by modern Gallifrey. To his relief, Koschei reached out and caught his hand, then clasped his forearm.

"As Rassilon, Omega, and the Other bear witness, I take your hand in friendship," swore Koschei solemnly in Old High Gallifreyan, Theta repeating the words in his turn. That Koschei knew the formula that even the Lungbarrovians no longer used was more proof that the other boy was as much a fan of ancient stories as Theta himself.

They spent the rest of the day together, talking of this and that as Koschei showed him around the family holdings. Theta didn't remember that much of it afterwards, as he was too distracted by the novelty of having a friend. He went back to the Farm a little before first sunset, having promised to return in two weeks' time on his next day off.

 _You left the grounds._ Innocet intercepted him on his way to bed that night. She tapped her head. _I could feel it. You know I can't protect you once you stray out of range._

Theta nodded guiltily. _I know. But it's all right. It's safe. I was granted Housepitality..._

 _At House Oakdown?_ thought Innocet sharply. _Oh, Snail, you have to be careful. Time Lords can be treacherous._

 _Koschei isn't like that!_ Theta refused to hear anything against his new friend.

Innocet bit her lip and let it go, even though her worried gaze stayed on Theta. He could feel it even through the door he shut between them. Torvic, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. He must have slipped off with his gang right after curfew. It was forbidden to leave the Farm, but there was a Shabogan tavern in the settlement two miles away that turned a blind eye to the rules. Half their clientele had once been children at the Farm. The dregs of Gallifreyan society, with nowhere to go and no future except the menial labor permitted to them, they took what pleasures they could in their minor lawbreaking.

Well, good, thought Theta in relief. At least he would have a peaceful night for once.

Peace prevailed for the next few months. Theta stayed out of Torvic's way, and Torvic seemed to have found other amusements to distract him. Someone said that he was courting a girl among the Shabogans. Theta was dubious. But then again, they none of them had much chance of a proper marriage, so someone like Torvic would take what he could get. Even if he seemed ridiculously young for it at barely fifteen years old.

"It's because he knows he hasn't any time to waste," opined Koschei when Theta told him about it. They were sitting on a boulder on the bank of the river Lethe, which formed the eastern boundary of Koschei's father's estates. Trees shaded them from the double suns, the occasional silver leaf drifting down to swirl away on the current, which ran swift and deep here.

"What do you mean?" Theta plunked a pebble into the water, as he had been doing all afternoon.

"He's a Shanir maledight. Either he'll end up in the CIA and get himself killed on some godforsaken barbarian planet, or he'll drop a curse on the wrong person, and be quietly disposed of," said Koschei, in the tones of one explaining the obvious to an idiot. It sounded to Theta like another quote from his father. "Forget Torvic. He's nothing."

"Oh." Theta thought of Irrithia. Apparently another Shanir didn't count as the "wrong person". But Koschei was a Shanir, too, even if he refused to admit it and had manifested no Shanir powers since the first time they had met. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What about your future?"

"I'm for the Time Lord Academy," said Koschei. He sent a crumbling piece of shale skipping across the water. "What else?"

"But you're— you know." Theta didn't meet his eyes. "Didn't you see... what did you see during your initiation?"

"It doesn't matter. Don't you know? A Shanir is whatever a Time Lord points at and says is Shanir. I was... lucky," said Koschei. "Lucky to show no external signs."

"But you have, er, internal signs?"

Koschei stared resolutely out at the river. He said, voice soft, "Whatever I saw in the Untempered Schism. Whatever it was, I keep it behind a locked door in my mind." His fingers drummed on the boulder, a peculiar repeated rhythm of a triplet plus one. "Sometimes. Sometimes I can hear it knocking and rattling the bolt."

Theta shivered. "I remember running. But from what? I don't know. They took my memories."

"Don't overthink it," advised Koschei, turning to give Theta a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Scrub your mind clean enough, and you can get into the Academy, too. You have the brains for it, if you put in the effort."

"You? A Time Lord? When pig-rats fly!" The cruel, mocking voice hammered them from behind with palpable malice. Torvic loomed over them, swinging around a tree trunk into an aggressively intrusive stance. "You little shit. I let you out of my sight for a few days, and here's your lordship, all airs and graces, snuggling up to young Master Koschei. You make me sick."

Theta was too stunned at Torvic's sudden arrival to protest. How had he crept up on them unawares and how long had he been listening? Theta cursed his own stupidity in forgetting that out here, he was out of range of Innocet's psychic warnings.

"You must be Torvic. What are you doing here?" Koschei recovered his composure more quickly than Theta, as usual. He looked the intruder up and down coolly. "What's the matter? Did that Shabogan girl dump you?"

Koschei's taunt was light in tone, but Torvic's expression darkened with rage even as his eyes glittered with red sparks. Theta flinched, dreading the inevitable escalation. He froze, feeling helpless to do more than hope that the older boy would simply get disgusted and leave them alone. No such luck.

"Curse you!" Torvic shoved at the boulder, shattering it and sending Koschei and Theta tumbling into the river from the force of his malediction. "Goddamn spying Shanir. I'll teach you to use your powers on me..." He scrambled around to block Koschei's path out of the river.

In the time it took for Theta to swim back to shore, the current pushed him a dozen yards downstream. Koschei had been luckier, landing in the quiet pool of water sheltered by the curve of the bank. As Theta clambered onto a dry rock, he realized in shock that Koschei's taunt was in fact the precise truth. Rejected by the target of his affections, Torvic must have gone looking for someone to take his frustrations out on, without his gang around to witness his humiliation. Somehow he had tracked Theta here.

"What's wrong with you?" spluttered Koschei, wiping mud out of his eyes, his feet squelching in the weeds and sand at the river's edge. "God, this robe is ruined. It was new. Father will have my guts for garters."

Torvic shoved him over backwards, down into the water again. "Don't talk to me about your fucking father!"

"If you don't get the hell off his estates, he'll be wanting a word with _you_. And he's not likely to give you a choice about it, either," said Koschei calmly. He twisted around, bracing his arms against the drag of the current as he pushed himself back upright again. "Speaking from experience, it's not much fun. Though being a fatherless mongrel, maybe you wouldn't know about that."

 _Don't provoke him_ , Theta wished frantically at Koschei, but he knew it was too late. Koschei, the pampered son of Oakdown whom no one had ever dared lay a finger on before, didn't believe that this Shabogan bully would _really_ do anything to him. And it didn't even matter what Koschei said, because his posh accent was enough in itself enough to infuriate Torvic.

"I said shut up! What if I tell everyone his precious son is an unregistered Shanir? He'll cut you off quick enough," spat Torvic. "And slip you the White Knife to wipe out the disgrace. You'd use it, wouldn't you, Daddy's boy?"

"Tell whom you want," retorted Koschei, making a show of shaking weeds off his sodden sleeve. "Father _knows_ I'm no Shanir. Who are people going to believe? A high-ranking Time Lord or a pathetic loser from the Farm?"

"You—!" Speechless with fury, Torvic slammed Koschei into the water again. This time, he waded in far enough to press the other boy's head under the surface and hold it there. "Shut up!"

Theta watched in horror as Koschei thrashed, kicking and clawing at Torvic. Torvic was by far larger and stronger. Koschei didn't stand a chance. Theta hung back, knowing that Torvic had forgotten him for the moment. Bitter experience had taught him the futility of trying to fight back. If they were still, if they were quiet, Torvic would tire of the sport and go away. Please, please, please let it be so, prayed Theta.

Koschei's struggles were visibly weakening. Even though Gallifreyans were naturally equipped with a respiratory bypass, they couldn't survive underwater forever. Torvic would have to let him up soon.

Torvic didn't. Any longer, and Koschei would drown, but the older boy showed no signs of relenting.

Theta's hearts pounded in sympathy as he imagined what it must be like, trapped and helpless, knowing you were on the brink of death. Your mind going black with lack of oxygen. Lungs filling at last with water. Regeneration your only hope, a hope all too easily thwarted if you were still drowning... Theta clenched his fists in grim futility at his sides, watching as the moment dragged on. Torvic couldn't mean to kill Koschei.

He could.

Koschei had gone limp now, but Torvic seemed to neither notice nor care. His eyes glazed under a glowing sheen of red. With his muscles locked in murderous determination, he kept Koschei submerged in the river. A single thought burned through Theta's mind: Torvic wasn't going to stop. Koschei was about to die.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Original quote: Tori says it to Jame in "Among the Dead", a short story in the collection _Blood and Ivory_.


	3. Forgetting

_"Forget what you can't help." — Auntie Cleppetty (to everyone)_

* * *

Breaking free of his paralysis at last, Theta screamed wordlessly and charged straight at Torvic, ramming him with his body in an effort to dislodge him from Koschei. It was like hitting a wall. Dizzy with the impact, he wrenched at Torvic's arm, but to no avail. Then the older boy struck out with his other hand. It was more than a physical blow; the psychic force of his ill-wishing sent Theta sprawling backwards into the mud, hearts stuttering.

Scrambling back to his feet, Theta sent a desperate thought at Torvic. _You're killing him! He hasn't done anything to you. It's me you hate, isn't it? Torvic!_

The words sank into a blaze of blind fury. Torvic's mind was focused purely on destruction. Nothing rational, nothing that could be distracted or pacified.

Theta's own mind flattened into an answering rage. Not even thinking anymore, he picked up a sharp, heavy rock. His eyes calculated distance, footing, and acceleration without the input of conscious thought. He ran forward. Brought the rock down with both hands, smashing it into the back of Torvic's skull. Theta felt it go through bone, through soft tissue until it was stopped by the other side of the skull. He released the rock and stepped back.

Torvic toppled over, his grip on Koschei finally loosened. Theta pushed, rolling the body off of his friend. He worked Koschei free and hauled him up onto the bank, out of the water. _Koschei... Koschei, wake up. Breathe. Breathe! Please..._

Koschei was unresponsive. No pulse, no breath, nothing but darkness in his mind. Theta set his friend out on his back with his head lolling back. He knelt in the mud with his ear against Koschei's chest, listening and looking for any sign of life. A fading psychic presence met his mental probe. Theta clung to that thread of hope and sat back up, pushing the heels of his hands into Koschei's sternum, using his own weight for a rapid series of chest compressions, a technique they had taught him at the Farm. If his hearts didn't restart, then the physical stimulus would help trigger regeneration.

He counted numbly, then leaned down, pinching Koschei's nostrils shut and breathing into his mouth. Then more compressions. A drumbeat pounded in his ears. He didn't have the leisure to wonder at its source, only to fall back in surprise when it echoed back from the other boy. Koschei's hearts started beating again, first one, then both. Crying in relief, Theta rolled his friend over onto his side, holding him steady as he coughed out foamy gouts of river water.

 _Theta._ Koschei was in no state to speak, but his thoughts were clear again. _Are you crying? Don't... I'm alive. You saved me._

Theta wiped a hand across his face and gulped, swallowing his tears. Which only caused him to hiccup. _I thought he would kill you. He wouldn't listen. He went mad... I had to..._

 _Berserker flare_ , came a whisper of thought from Koschei, followed by an image, quickly suppressed. _I've seen it before_.

Theta didn't ask where, but he wondered about Koschei's father. All that strict order might well be a Time Lord's mental defense against a hidden Shanir affinity for That-Which-Destroys, the most dreaded aspect of the Three-Faced God. He started to say something, but hiccuped again.

Koschei's eyes focused on his face. _Not only Torvic. You._

"Me?" Theta shook his head. No, impossible. Not him.

Koschei's eyes closed. _Torvic. He's dead, isn't he? Check his body_.

Theta obeyed, reluctantly. With a growing sense of revulsion, he managed to heave Torvic's body onto dry land. It was completely limp and lifeless, without even a trace of psychic presence left. He must have died the instant Theta struck him with the rock. Sickened, Theta turned away, only to find Koschei watching him again.

 _As dead as dead can be_ , came Koschei's thought. _No sign of regeneration_.

"He's a d-destructive Shanir," said Theta through chattering teeth. He sat down with his arms hugging his knees, feeling horribly weak and shaky. "They have the m-most d-difficulty with regeneration."

 _Even so, he should be hanging on for hours yet. A Shanir that strong isn't easy to kill..._

"I hit him with a rock. I could feel his skull break." Theta glanced at the ruin of Torvic's head, and the sight nearly made him vomit. He couldn't stop shivering. "Oh God, Koschei, what are we going to do?"

Koschei pushed himself up into a sitting position. He wiped a dirty sleeve across his mouth, coughed a few more times, then said hoarsely, "Nothing. You go back to the Farm. Say nothing. I'll tell Father—"

"No!"

"—tell him there's been a dreadful accident," concluded Koschei. "Torvic is dead. We can't hide that, but they don't have to know you were here."

"But what about you?"

"Father won't want a scandal," said Koschei. "He'll blunt the teeth of any investigators who dare to question House Oakdown."

"Oh," said Theta dully. Of course. Such was the privilege enjoyed by one who sat on the High Council of the Time Lords.

"You'd better get moving." Koschei started to stand up, then changed his mind when his legs wouldn't support him. "I'll rest a bit, then I'll go back to the House. It's best you aren't here when they come for the body."

Theta lingered for a moment, trying to think of a better plan, but his thoughts were a muddle of panic and horrified guilt, and nothing came to mind but to do as Koschei had said. He walked slowly enough that by the time he returned to the Farm, his clothes were nearly dry again. He avoided talking to anyone, and in Torvic's absence, no one asked except Innocet. When he didn't answer her questions, she clearly gleaned his mental state and didn't press him further.

At first he couldn't sleep, dreading the moment when the lawkeepers would drag him out of bed to face justice. When he closed his eyes, the pale, dead face of Torvic flashed before him, floating in an aura of blood. Holding back sobs of terror, Theta ran from the house and took refuge in the barn. It was hours past midnight before he drifted off into an uneasy, nightmare-plagued slumber. In his dreams, he relived the moment again, taking up the rock and smashing it into the back of Torvic's head. This time, a dark presence hovered behind his left shoulder, watching him. Theta felt that it was pleased.

 _Mutilated child. My champion. Tyr-ridan._ Its mental voice slid seamlessly into Theta's own thoughts.

"No!" He woke up screaming his refusal. For the rest of the night, he lay with his eyes closed, doing his best to think of nothing at all.

The next morning, a messenger from Koschei's father arrived, speaking first to the Caretaker and Auntie Cleppetty. Afterwards, the Caretaker gathered all the children in assembly and announced the news of Torvic's death. An unfortunate accident, he said. Because Torvic had no recognized Family, House Oakdown had generously offered to host the funeral services. All the children were given the day off, with permission to attend the funeral if they wished.

Theta had no such wish, but he had to talk to Koschei. He met his friend at their usual spot in the woods. Drawn by perverse fascination, the two of them found themselves returning to the site of Torvic's death.

"Are you all right?" asked Theta in a subdued voice. "Will you be in trouble with your father?"

"Nothing to it," Koschei said, shrugging it off. "He wanted to believe me."

As he explained it, Koschei's story was simple. He and Torvic had been playing by the river's edge. There was a strong current. Torvic hit his head on a rock. All true statements, verified by the low-grade mind probe issued to the local constabulary, who did not dare to ask further questions without backing from higher up, backing that Koschei's father made sure was not forthcoming. Thus no one asked who was holding the rock that Torvic's head collided with. Nobody mentioned Theta Sigma.

"Oh. Good," said Theta, blankly. He saw that chunks of the boulder shattered by Torvic were still embedded in the mud. Where was the piece he had used — no. He wouldn't think about that.

"Are _you_ all right?" asked Koschei. "You're not looking well."

"Had a nightmare," muttered Theta.

"He's not worth losing sleep over," said Koschei. He took Theta by the hand. "Come on. We'll send him on his way. You can beg forgiveness from his ghost if you like, but I shan't be shedding any tears."

Theta allowed Koschei to lead him back towards his father's house, where a funeral pavilion had been set up outside in a field. Next to that stood a massive pyre with Torvic's body on top, wrapped in a white sheet. Inside the pavilion, pots of flowers were arranged tastefully around a life-sized hologram of Torvic. Theta avoided meeting its eyes, tiptoeing around it to slide into an empty bench with Koschei.

Most of the benches were empty. The Caretaker and the Housekeeper were there, of course, sitting in their formal robes in the front row. A handful of children from the farm, including Innocet, were scattered throughout the rest of the seats. Irrithia was there, staring balefully at the hologram, absently stroking his artificial leg.

 _Not much of a showing_ , Koschei thought at Theta. _Where's his little gang?_

 _The Toad was afraid to come,_ replied Theta. _I think he thinks death is contagious. In case Torvic's ghost wants company..._

 _Some friend!_ Koschei laughed silently, only a glint of amusement showing in his eyes. _Promise me — when I die, you'll come to my funeral, all right?_

 _Of course_ , answered Theta at once. His fingers tightened on Koschei's hand. _And the same for you, if I die first_.

 _Naturally._ Then Koschei's thoughts stilled; his father had arrived in the pavilion. The Time Lord spoke all the correct Words and made all the proper gestures for mourning the death of one taken too young. Theta barely listened. It meant nothing. Only the smoke was real: the acrid reek of charred flesh that no amount of air filtering could hide.

The smell haunted Theta's sleep long after the funeral was over. The smell, and the memory of the fateful day, and the voice of That-Which-Destroys tangled in his nightmares: run as he would, Theta couldn't escape. During the day, he was constantly tired, constantly on edge. If the others at the Farm suspected anything, none of them ever spoke openly of their suspicions.

"Whatever happened, it's over," Innocet told him. Even she didn't really want to know, though Theta could tell from the slight tremor in her voice that she had already guessed a great deal. "Accidents are sometimes unavoidable, and violence rebounds on the violent." That was as close as she would get to saying that she didn't blame Theta for killing Torvic. "There's no use wallowing in the past."

"Forget what you can't help," advised Auntie Cleppetty. She said the same thing to any of the children unable to cope with their own Shanir natures. If she knew the truth of what had happened to Torvic, she hid that knowledge well.

"Secrets and lies," Theta said to Koschei, when he was able to get away again. "I hate it."

"'Forget what you can't help'? It's sensible advice, for someone in your situation," said Koschei.

"Sensible?"

"Yes, sensible. Have you ever tried it? Just... just for a few years. Just until you can get your certificate," said Koschei, his voice taking on a pleading tone. "You can't keep on like this; you'll go mad, and you're too young to do that."

Theta laughed a little. They both knew the stories of old Time Lords whose minds had gone soft with age. Some were harmless, while others embarked on campaigns of conquest against the lesser races. That was bad enough, but Theta was afraid, afraid that he might be worse. _Tyr-ridan_ , the voice had called him in his nightmares. The Tyr-ridan were, according to legend, the three Gallifreyans who would come to embody each of the aspects of the Three-Faced God. The prophecies said they would appear for the final battle against the Dark. So far, the Gallifreyans had managed to fight off that destiny. Rassilon willing, Theta could hold it off for another generation...

"You need to forget. That's the only way you'll ever be able to pass," said Koschei.

Theta nodded, knowing his friend was right. To be certified clean of the Shanir taint, he would have to submit to a deep mind scan. Any lingering traces of the old blood, and he wouldn't be passed. The memory of killing Torvic — that was more than enough to disqualify him. The Time Lords would implant mental blocks and release him to the Shabogans or the army, with no chance after that of entering the Time Lord Academy. The only other alternative was to join a religious order. That might not be too bad — Theta remembered the Shanir hermit who had lived on the mountainside behind Lungbarrow — but he had never felt any avocation for the priesthood.

"But I don't want to. I don't even know how much I've already forgotten. What if there's nothing left of me, after?" Nightmares or not, he was even more afraid of losing himself if he gave up the rest of his memories.

Koschei reached out, letting his fingers touch Theta's temples. "Let me remember for both of us. I'll keep the memories safe."

Theta's mental shields wavered. To give this horror to his friend, even and especially his closest friend, didn't seem right. Yet Koschei seemed so certain, so strong, that Theta was tempted. It would be a relief to share the burden of remembering. "But won't it be dangerous for you?"

"I'm not the one who lives on the Farm," said Koschei. "Please, Theta. It's for the best."

Theta sighed in assent, letting his mental barriers fall. For a moment, their thoughts flowed freely, their minds joined as one.

Then Koschei snapped back, his hands jerking away from Theta. He gasped, shutting his eyes, but didn't say anything.

 _Koschei?_ Theta reached out tentatively with a hand and a thought, but his friend shied away. _Are you all right? I'm sorry. I didn't mean — didn't mean to hurt you._

It was awhile before Koschei answered, his voice tight, "I'll be fine. I didn't realize... No, I'll be fine. Just don't let this be for nothing. You know what you have to do."

"I know," said Theta. His gaze lingered on Koschei, and he found himself wishing he could take it all back. But it was too late for regrets or doubts. For the sake of the future, Theta had to put the past behind him. In the future, away from the Farm, away from Koschei's father, they would be able to live the lives they chose, with their memories finally intact. Until then...

 _Forget what you can't help._ From then on, Theta set his mind to blocking those memories that only harmed him. Torvic faded from his thoughts, and Theta forgot his own part in his death. The nightmares ceased. Any inkling of Shanir power was ruthlessly suppressed. He threw himself into studying, taking on as many classes as Auntie Cleppetty would permit. Because the Farm was denied the advanced pedagogical technology used on the rest of Gallifrey, Theta knew he would have to work harder just to keep up. Few children from the Farm ever passed the entrance examination for the Academy even if they were certified, but Theta was not willing to mutilate his own mind only to become an ordinary Gallifreyan citizen. He would be a Time Lord, or nothing at all.

Koschei, who had the best tutors money and rank could buy, did what he could to help Theta, sneaking him access to a better class of textbooks and study aids than the Farm provided. If Koschei seemed withdrawn at times, or tired and short-tempered, Theta put it down to academic stress. Koschei never said otherwise. The years passed quickly. To Theta's surprise, Innocet declined to submit to the certification process, which meant failure by default.

"I never wanted to go to the Academy," she told Theta. "Time Lords don't know everything. I won't give up what I am to become one of them."

"Oh," said Theta, taken aback. By then, he couldn't remember what he might have given up in his single-minded pursuit of his vision of becoming a Time Lord. "Then what will you do?"

"I've spoken to Auntie Cleppetty. There's an opening at the Farm. I'll stay on as a teacher," said Innocet. It was a way of keeping her mind free of Time Lord meddling.

Theta nodded. It made sense. She got on well with the younger children, while not even the older ones dared defy her. It wasn't that her presence was threatening, but more that she expected a certain order to the universe, and was able to maintain it by sheer force of will.

Theta himself continued his studies, focusing his thoughts to conform to the strictest definition of a properly civilized Gallifreyan. A few years later, when he went under the mind probe, there was little doubt of the outcome.

"Congratulations," said Koschei, when Theta showed him the official certificate. "You're 'normal'. Now comes the hard part."

Theta's face fell. "You're right." They would still have to pass the entrance exam to get into the Academy. More, as Koschei reminded him, he needed a sponsor. Koschei had his father, of course, but Theta had no one.

"Ask Quences," suggested Koschei. "Yes, he cast you out when you were a child, but it's different now. You have your certificate, and I bet you're a hundred times cleverer than any of your Cousins. Quences will be falling over himself to welcome you back to Lungbarrow."

Theta wasn't so sure, but Koschei was persuasive, as he always was.

* * *

"The Academy? The Time Lord Academy?" Quences' age-cracked voice still managed to fill the audience chamber, echoing off the dusty walls, as if the House itself was listening. The certificate of rehabilitation was curled in his fist.

"Yes, sir." Theta stood in the center of the chamber, keeping his head humbly bowed. Before him, Quences and Satthralope, as Kithriarch and Housekeeper, sat on throne-like raised chairs. On either side, a handful of Cousins were gathered to watch the show. One of them stepped forward, clutching a sheaf of papers. Theta risked a glance up. It was Glospin. Theta remembered him as Satthralope's favorite, and by the way she almost smiled at him now, that hadn't changed.

"Sir, don't be taken in! I don't know how he fooled the certification board, but don't let him fool you."

"What is it now?" Quences sounded irritated at the interruption.

Glospin waved the papers in Quences' direction. "I have his biodata scans here. They show clear evidence of anomalies. The Shanir taint is woven deeply into his timeline. He could even be a potential Tyr-ridan!"

Satthralope brought a ring of keys down on the arm of her chair with a resounding clank. "That word will not be spoken this House!"

"My apologies," muttered Glospin, bowing and retreating. "In my eagerness for the truth to be clear, I overstepped."

"That's as may be," said Quences. "However, the law cannot be denied. He has been certified clear of the taint. He has the same right as any other Gallifreyan to apply to the Academy."

"But need he apply under the name of Lungbarrow? The Family already has Glospin here; he's in his thirteenth year at the Academy and has done well in all his examinations," said Satthralope.

"'Well'? I'd say mediocrity was more his measure," grumbled Quences. Theta felt the Kithriarch's gaze focus on him again. "You were always a bright child. Now if you can fulfill that promise..."

"I'll do my best, sir," said Theta.

In the end, the Kithriarch overruled all the protests of Satthralope and Glospin. He signed off on Theta's application to the Time Lord Academy.

"Our hopes rest with you, my boy," said Quences.

Satthralope and Glospin glared daggers at Theta, but their approval no longer mattered.

* * *

"'Theta Sigma'?" Koschei read the name on the application. "You aren't changing it?"

"No," said Theta. They sat on a fallen log halfway up the mountain behind Lungbarrow, not far from the hut where the hermit had used to live. "For better or worse, I grew up at the Farm. No point in hiding it."

"Ah, well, once we enter the Academy, it won't matter about your background. Everyone starts on equal footing," said Koschei. That was the theory, at least.

"It'll be the same for you," Theta pointed out. "You won't be shielded by your father's name anymore."

"At last!" Koschei emitted a huff of relief.

Theta wasn't as sanguine. "You've never been without it before."

"What, you think I can't cope?"

Theta shrugged. "I think it'll come as a bit of shock, that's all."

"I'll be fine. Anyway, you'll be there, too," said Koschei confidently.

Theta nodded, hoping that would be true. They still had to pass the entrance exam.

* * *

"We're in!" Theta nearly jumped up and down in his excitement.

"We're going to be Time Lords!" said Koschei, just as euphoric. They laughed and threw their arms around each other, pounding each other's backs in glee.

"If we don't get thrown out first," said Theta, disentangling himself at last, but he was still elated. The Academy was a whole different world. Away from the Farm, away from the other Shanir, maybe he would finally be able to fit into normal society. "Time Lord, huh. It's funny how Quences has his hopes up again. I think he expects me to become a Cardinal."

"Cardinal, that's nothing. You'll be Lord President some day," said Koschei, laughing at him.

Theta aimed a mock punch at him. "Don't say things like that. It's terrible bad luck." Then, "I'm not interested in politics. I'd rather travel and see the universe."

"Leave Gallifrey? Think of the scandal." "Who cares about the scandal? Oh, come on, Koschei, we'll go together. It'll be brilliant."

That day, nothing could dampen Theta's joy. Tomorrow they would go to the Academy together. They had put childhood behind at last. Tomorrow, they would take their first steps towards true freedom.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Original quote: a saying of the Women's World in "Seeker's Mask". Kencyrs and Gallifreyans alike are experts at denial and blocking inconvenient memories.

I'm not that fond of the whole child-murderer trope (damn your popularity, "Ender's Game"!) but since Big Finish did introduce it, I decided to go along with it, while tweaking things to give the Master more agency. Between that and the drums and being the reincarnation of the Other, no wonder the Doctor and the Master are so messed up. The Time's Champion/Death's Champion thing has been replaced here by the Tyr-ridan concept from the Kencyrath books. Amnesia (often self-induced) as a method of coping with trauma seems to be the default in Gallifreyan culture. Therapists are apparently nonexistent.


	4. A pair of jackanapes

_A few thousand years later..._

"Out! Out! Get out!" The Doctor made angry shooing motions with his hands. Earlier that day, he had dragged Missy back to his TARDIS a step ahead of a lynch mob, but thankfully _after_ he had saved the planet from her latest scheme. Now he regretted ever letting her travel with him. After stewing for two hours in a restorative bath, he finally had enough energy to eject her from his ship. "Just go away! Go!"

"Sorry. But you know how it is when you get an idea stuck in your head." Missy didn't sound the least bit contrite, but she did allow herself to be herded out of the inner corridors towards the primary control room. "I'd never conquered a planet using water balloons before..."

"And you're not going to do it now. Autons, seriously?"

"You can make balloons out of plastic. Besides, that museum wasn't doing anything with the Nestene energy unit." Missy had brazenly stolen the chunk of plastic meteorite out of the display case. It contained part of the intelligence that controlled the Autons.

"We did the Nestene Consciousness before. It didn't end well."

"This time it was just a tiny little fragment, barely enough to animate the balloons. How else could I turn them into self-folding water balloon _animals_?" She rolled her eyes. "Stop fussing."

"People died!"

"People die all the time: by car accident, murder, heart disease, starvation, snake bite, autoerotic asphyxiation. The list is endless. At least this way we got some funny videos out of it. That's more immortality than most of them deserve." She retrieved her umbrella from the hatstand and swung it around to point at the Doctor. "It's certainly more responsible than granting random humans literal immortality."

"Your TARDIS. Coordinates. Now." The Doctor stood with his hand hovering over the navigation controls as he stared into the central column.

"Fine. Be that way. I've had enough of your sanctimonious nonsense to last me through the next century at least." She recited a string of coordinates, then plopped herself into the armchair that she had installed in the console room.

The Doctor set their destination in silence, which he didn't break until the TARDIS landed with its characteristic thud. He glanced at the scanner. "Jin's World, 4456 Humanian Era. Earth colony. Can't say I've ever been there before."

"No reason you would. Total dullsville," said Missy. "That's why I parked there." She headed towards the door, twirling around with her umbrella as she waltzed past the Doctor. "Be seeing you, love."

The Doctor snarled irritably in response. Then something about the hang of her umbrella caught his eye, and he stopped her. He reached inside its folds and plucked out a water balloon. It jiggled in psychedelic colors in the Doctor's grip. "No."

"It's just a little memento," said Missy, pouting. "Perfectly harmless."

"Nothing's 'perfectly harmless' where you're concerned," said the Doctor. He held the balloon up next to his ear and closed his eyes. He could sense something, some lingering psychic presence.

"You're one to speak," said Missy. "But that one's pretty, isn't it? I was going to save it for a special occasion, but you can keep it if you like."

"There's some kind of psychic residue," said the Doctor. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing. I found it on a church altar. The locals were praying to it; said they saw the face of God on it." Missy laughed. "Aren't people silly creatures? Worshipping a figment of their own overactive pattern-recognition systems."

The Doctor grunted, shoving the water balloon into a coat pocket. "Good-bye, Missy." He waited until she was well outside before he muttered, "And good riddance."

He slapped the door control viciously. The door closed with a satisfying clunk, but the Doctor found himself watching Missy's progress on the scanner. It wasn't something he wanted to admit, but with Missy gone, crushing boredom loomed ahead. Thousands of planets and times he could visit, but none of them appealed. He could find another traveling companion or two, but that carried its own risks. The more he liked them, the more it hurt when he inevitably ended up destroying their natural lives. He touched a control and the scanner zoomed in on Missy. Infuriating as she was, he would still miss her.

She had crossed the open space between the Doctor's TARDIS and the cluster of prefabricated, modular huts typical of this era of colonization. She wasn't dressed to fit in, but no one was around to see. Even though the planet's atmosphere had been terraformed to within human tolerances, the surface was still mostly a rocky wasteland, with only grayish lichen growing outside the farming domes. Missy's TARDIS had apparently been disguised as one of the huts. The Doctor saw her open the door.

Then she vanished.

The Doctor blinked. It looked like a teleport, but why would she bother teleporting into her own TARDIS? Some war TARDISes used a timescoop instead of the usual dimensional interface, but that had its own distinctive look, and this wasn't it. He focused the scanner on the open door. The interior showed only darkness. After a few moments, the door swung shut again. The Doctor waited for the "hut" to dematerialize.

Nothing.

The Doctor continued watching, feeling increasingly uneasy. He fiddled with the scanner settings. It picked up an energy trace. Part of it was consistent with a short-range teleport, but there was a spike that suggested more. He ran through the spatio-temporal checks and found a faint line of distortion. It could be something Missy had done herself, of course.

Or it had been a trap, and she had walked right into it. Or was it a trap that she had set for him? The Doctor shook his head, thinking it through. Traveling together, they had both become careless, each subconsciously relying on the other for backup, each throwing the other into danger just for the thrill of watching them survive the impossible. So who was this aimed at? Who would know to set a trap for her here? They both had enough time-traveling enemies that he couldn't pin it down with any specificity.

It didn't matter. The Doctor slid on his sonic sunglasses and headed for the door. Once outside, he paused a moment to inhale a lungful of the new-minted atmosphere.

"A bit low in argon," he decided. Then he stepped away, shutting the TARDIS behind him. "Right. Let's dance."

By the time he reached the false hut, he had already made the calculations and fixed the settings on his sonic sunglasses. Keeping a wary distance, he hit the trigger as soon as he was in range, nullifying the teleport. He scanned the hut again, then frowned at the results. This wasn't a TARDIS. It was the after-image of a TARDIS. He adjusted his sunglasses and activated them again.

The hut shimmered and vanished. The Doctor found himself looking at his own startled face in a full-length mirror. The mirror was set in a matte black frame with some kind of techno-wizardry built into its base. He approached and crouched down to examine it more closely. This must be the source of the teleport and its power supply. If he could hack into the control system, he would be able to retrieve Missy, or at least locate her.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure in a pale lavender coat appear in the mirror. It seemed to be a human girl, about ten years old with straight black hair down to her shoulders, watching him from across the street. Appearances could be deceptive, he reminded himself. He had dispelled one illusion already. Behind him, the girl in the reflection took something out from her pocket and lifted it, using both hands. A slingshot with metal prongs. She was aiming it at him.

The Doctor tensed, waiting.

He saw the light catch on something metallic flying through the air. The Doctor flung himself aside, rolling clear before leaping back to his feet. He listened for the impact of the projectile on the mirror. It never came.

Instead, there was the dull thwack of something hitting flesh. The Doctor turned to see...

...a man, dressed all in drab shades of dun, his face bleached and pale underneath dark skin, with eyes that glowed a malevolent red. He had been standing right behind the Doctor, clawlike hands reaching out for him when the Doctor had ducked away. He turned now, snarling at the girl in the lavender coat.

She was already running away, footsteps skipping lightly over the rocky wasteland.

The Doctor took advantage of the distraction to scan the stranger with his sonic sunglasses. No reflection, corpse-pallor, glowing eyes. And now the scan confirmed his suspicions: _vampire_. He had met vampires before. Only a tiny minority had ever turned out to be friendly. He hastily set his sunglasses to emit a sonic pulse he hoped could cause incapacitating pain to a vampire's sensitive hearing.

The vampire knocked the sunglasses from the Doctor's face before they could emit so much as a peep.

"Can we talk about this?" The Doctor dodged aside, narrowly evading the vampire's next blow. Those _were_ claws, sharp enough to slash open an artery. He touched his neck, and his fingers came away smeared with his own blood.

"Resistance is futile, Time Lord," hissed the vampire, speaking in an ancient Gallifreyan dialect out of the Dark Times.

"No. Don't. Don't say that. I refuse. To be murdered by. A cliche," gasped the Doctor, who didn't dare slow down long enough to form a complete sentence. He glanced around for anything to use as a weapon or shelter, but nothing looked promising. He thumped one of the huts as he dodged around it; it was too flimsy to stand against a determined attack. Disused storage units, he guessed, by the lack of activity in the area.

"I'm not here to kill you," said the vampire, dropping the accent and his attempts to claw the Doctor. "Do stop running around in circles; it's making me dizzy."

The Doctor halted warily. His hand went to his neck again. "What's this, then, some new greeting fad among the hemoglobin-challenged?"

"No, you're right, I was going to cut your throat. More convenient for me that way: I get a snack and you're incapacitated," said the vampire. He shrugged. "Maybe later. For now..." He raised both hands and wove them through the air in strange, graceful patterns. Sparks of gold light seemed to trail from the tips of his claws.

The Doctor watched, fascinated. In his fascination, he didn't notice as the vampire took a step closer, then another. It was almost a dance, those elegant fingers, those hypnotic movements.

Hypnotic.

His thoughts grew increasingly lethargic. Some part of him screamed danger, but it was muffled under the dream-like atmosphere the vampire had summoned.

 _Vampire!_ The word pierced the Doctor's fascination with an instinctive terror that jolted his hearts. Between one heartbeat and the next, he had an instant of clarity. In that instant, he reached into his coat pocket and drew out Missy's water balloon and smashed it into the vampire's face — the face that was now right in front of him. The balloon burst, a gush of water splashing out onto the vampire.

Holy water.

The vampire shrieked. His face _burned_. Smoke rose from under his tightly shut eyelids while the water gouged raw oozing furrows down his cheeks, falling in caustic drops down his collar and onto bare skin. Blinded and in agony, he turned and fled.

The Doctor shook off the hypnosis and started after the vampire, with no thought of what he would do if he caught him. Even so, he charged forward, catching up just as the vampire reached the mirror...

...and ran straight into it.

The Doctor tried to follow, but the mirror exploded before he could touch it. He threw himself to one side and shielded his face with an arm. He lowered it a few moments later to find himself and the ground littered with smoky shards of glass. The metallic backing of the mirror was cracked, surface reduced to a dull black. Luckily, the explosion had not been of any great force: the Doctor had suffered no more than minor cuts where his skin had been exposed.

He gingerly brushed the bits of glass from his clothing before resuming his inspection of the mirror's base. The control system was well-secured, but it was nothing he couldn't break through, given time. With no more interference from vampires or mysterious little girls, he worked his way into the code. Some of it struck him as familiar. Not any specific element, but rather the style in which it had been assembled, as if he was reading a new book by an old author.

He put the thought away for later. For now, he had to reverse the teleport... if the target was still accessible. It was. Both of them were. Both? The Doctor blinked at the display on his sonic sunglasses. Right. This time he would be ready for the vampire. He programmed the retrieval, then stood back at what he hoped would be a safe distance and activated the trigger.

Two prone figures materialized on the ground in front of the broken mirror. One of them was Missy, a stasis collar fitted around her neck. The other one was _not_ the vampire. It was a short, stocky woman wearing a Gallifreyan nun's robe, as well a collar matching Missy's. The Doctor recognized her: Sister Amity, a novice of the Weeping Sisterhood. His cousin's acolyte.


	5. Remembering

"Doctor, you must help us. Grandmother Truthless is missing!" said the nun, the first words out of her mouth as soon as the Doctor had released her and Missy from their stasis collars.

"Couldn't you have swept the ground first?" grumbled Missy, picking bits of glass from her clothes. A streak of blood marked the side of her jaw where a shard had dug into her face. Then she frowned at Sister Amity. "Can't your sisterhood look after its own? Why come running to the Doctor for every little thing?"

"Hush. It's the least I owe her. You know she always looked after me when I was a child," said the Doctor. Truthless was the name his cousin Innocet had taken when she had left the Farm and joined the Weeping Sisterhood. That had been a long time ago now, but they had met again more recently, the last time the Doctor had returned to Gallifrey. "But Missy has a point. The Sisterhood isn't short of seers. You can't find her?"

Amity shook her head. She said, her voice trembling, "All they see is darkness. Nothing but the darkness. The Visionary scrawls the glyphs of the devourer of worlds, over and over. The walls of night are failing, she says. The Ancient Enemy gnaws at the roots."

"Not another apocalypse? Didn't we just have one?" complained Missy. "Doctor, your face is bleeding."

"So is yours." The Doctor offered a handkerchief to Missy, then used a second one to dab at his own cuts. "Walls of night? What walls are those?"

"The ones in the world before, that hold back Caramel Darkling," said Amity.

"Oh, that old myth," scoffed the Doctor. "'The Great Wall of Rassilon, eternal and impenetrable, that did protect the New Time from the Ancient Evil,' et cetera, et cetera. Whatever I think of the man, I don't doubt his architectural achievements. If he said it was eternal and impenetrable..."

"You're an idiot," said Missy. She turned to Amity. "So the Ancient Evil is awake, and ate the Doctor's cousin? Did it steal my TARDIS, too?"

"No, that was the vampire," said the Doctor. "Caramel Darkling was never known for its grasp of technology. It wouldn't use teleports and stasis collars."

"Grandmother Truthless isn't dead," said Amity. "Her timeline is lost in darkness, but it hasn't ended. She was going to send for you two, anyway. The prophecy of the Tyr-ridan—"

"No!" said the Doctor sharply. "That's enough. I'll look for her, but that's all. No final battles, no divine manifestations..."

"But—" began Amity. A fierce glare from the Doctor shut her up. She swallowed, nodded, and said, "All right."

After that, a brief telepathic contact gave the Doctor and Missy everything the Weeping Sisterhood knew about Truthless's disappearance. It wasn't much. She had been alone when she vanished, meditating in one of the stone gardens maintained on the abbey grounds. They had found no evidence of any other presence or traces of technological involvement.

"A stone garden," mused the Doctor. "Was there a pool or a pond, anything like that?"

"Yes," said Amity. "Why?"

"Reflections," said Missy. "Merely an optical quirk, or something more dangerous?"

"The abbey is warded," protested Amity. "Nothing could get in."

"Not unless it was invited," said the Doctor.

"She wouldn't have," said Amity. "None of us would."

"Yes, yes, whatever makes your little hearts feel safer," said Missy. She waved a hand. "Now run along, dear. Your task here is done."

"But I was told to offer my assistance to the Doctor—"

"And you've done that. There's nothing more for you to do," said Missy. "If the Doctor needs help, I'll help him."

The Doctor gave her a sidelong glance. She merely smiled sweetly at him. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Attached again, was she? He tried not to think about bloodsucking ticks, but she picked up the image from his mind and gave him a mental slap.

 _She's a spy. You know that_.

 _They're just worried_ , thought the Doctor. Aloud, he said, "Go back. Tell the Sisterhood to keep their doors closed and be careful who they invite over the threshold."

"Very well. If you're sure," said Amity, not without a hint of relief. She twisted the Time Ring she wore and vanished.

The Doctor shook his head and returned to his examination of the mirror.

"Tyr-ridan." Missy gave him a long look, then bent to collect the shards of glass, wrapping as many as she could fit in the handkerchief.

The Doctor downloaded the data from the control system into his sonic sunglasses.

"Looks like it's finally caught up to us," said Missy.

The Doctor pretended not to hear her. He walked back to his TARDIS, finding comfort in its familiar blue police box shape. He patted it fondly, then stepped inside.

"It's not just a bad dream anymore. The Three-faced God wants its pieces in place." Missy followed him into the control room. "You do remember, don't you?"

"No thanks to you," said the Doctor, finally goaded into replying. He circled around the central console, staying on the opposite side from Missy. "Poor Torvic. Was he no more than a pawn sacrificed early in the game? You never returned those memories to me. Why not?"

"You were trying so hard to be good. To become the _Doctor_. I didn't have the hearts to spoil it for you." Missy shook her head. "Useless, as it turned out. You were still driven to break into the Cloisters and dig into the Matrix. And you handed your memories over to me for a second time..."

"I was scared," admitted the Doctor. "I always thought of you as so much braver than me. If you were afraid of anything, you never let on."

Missy went to her armchair and sat down. She unfolded the handkerchief in her lap and eyed the mirror shards speculatively. "None of us wanted those visions. Who'd be the Tyr-ridan? No, thanks, not today, and not ever. So when did you remember?"

"The first time I came close wasn't long after I left Gallifrey. I had a rock in my hand, about to smash it into someone's head. There was a resonance... but Chesterton stopped me."

"One of your human pets?"

"One of the first humans I came to know personally." The Doctor looked away. "If it hadn't been for him and Barbara... well. All of them kept it far from my mind. But later, I was alone again. And it came back that time in Perfugium. You were Doctor John Smith, and I showed up on your doorstep..."

"I remember." As John Smith, she (he) had lived through ten years of mundane human existence as a sane and benevolent pillar of the community. It had all been a game set up by That-Which-Destroys. A game, or a lesson? If so, what had they learned? Missy offered her own take on it, saying, "I suppose the Three-faced God was tired of waiting for you to remember on your own."

"Perhaps." Another, darker thought came to the Doctor. "Or it was a warning."

"Of what?" Missy asked.

"To stop trying to evade my curse by putting it on someone else." The Doctor glanced across the console at Missy, guilt spiking as he considered what the burden of his memories must have done to her. "Every time you were free of those memories, you choose to be a good person. Doctor Smith, Professor Yana. So it's my fault you turned to evil. If I hadn't forced you to..."

"Oh, the ego," scoffed Missy. She glared back at him. "You didn't force me to do anything."

"I was the murderer," insisted the Doctor. "I should have been the one to—"

"You, you, you. You think it's always about you! You think if only I hadn't taken on your memories, I'd be you, and you'd be me. Nonsense." She pushed herself to her feet, clearly fed up with the conversation. "Wallow in guilt if you like, but leave me out of it. You couldn't be me if you tried."

The Doctor sighed in frustration, but made no immediate attempt to follow her as she stomped off into the interior of his TARDIS. Instead, he busied himself reprogramming the ship's sensors to scan for signs of vampires and the Ancient Evil. He didn't actually have any reliable indicators for "Ancient Evil", but he had come across various entities from outside the usual spacetime continuum before, and he made some wild guesses for the markers of what the Gallifreyans called "Caramel Darkling." It took him an hour to set up, and would take hours more for the TARDIS to complete the initial sweeps.

Meanwhile... he checked another monitor screen for shipboard activity. The results led him to the TARDIS laboratory that Missy had adapted for her own use. He found her at a workbench, doing something with the mirror shards she had collected. He stood in the doorway and watched her ignoring him, even though he knew that she knew he was there.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, by way of apology, "You're right. I couldn't be you if I tried."

She didn't reply.

"Actually, I did try it once," said the Doctor. "You know that thing you do where you ally yourself with some random aggressive species, help them with their absurd invasion plans, then turn around and stab them in the back."

"..." Missy didn't speak, but he thought he caught a spark of amusement from her mind. He risked stepping across the threshold into the lab. When she didn't object, he pulled a low stool from under a table and sat down.

"You seemed to enjoy it so much that I wondered what I was missing out on," continued the Doctor.

"...!"

The Doctor smirked. "I think they wanted you, actually, but you were pretty well ensconced on Traken at the time, so I convinced them that I would do just as well."

Missy emitted a tiny snort of laughter, but didn't look at him.

"I signed their contract, took over Gallifrey, and let the Vardans invade."

"Vardans!" Missy was startled into open laughter. "On Gallifrey? Now I'm sorry I missed it. How'd it go?"

"Amusing at first, but then it became messy, especially after the Sontarans showed up." The Doctor sighed, shaking his head. "I should have expected it, but we never do, do we? Our plans go belly up and we have to improvise in the end."

"So what did you improvise?" Missy had finally turned around to face him.

"A De-Mat gun. Borusa wasn't happy. I only got him off my back by faking amnesia," the Doctor admitted, hanging his head in shame at his cowardice.

"Really, Doctor." Missy closed the distance between them and kissed the top of his head. "You're hopeless. Adorable, but completely hopeless."

"I know." He caught her fingers in his. "Let's work together on this."

Missy pursed her lips and gave him a look, but didn't disagree. She freed her fingers at last and stepped back, picking up a fragment of glass. "So, vampires."

"Vampires. True vampires, not fish vampires, haemovores, plasmavores, or turned humans."

Missy held the glass up to the light. "The legends say that for a true vampire, a mirror is a gateway into the world before. They originated in another universe and crossed over in order to feed. Is there really another universe through the looking glass? Sounds rather fanciful."

"It's real enough," stated the Doctor flatly.

"You've been there?"

The Doctor grunted noncommittally.

"You have!" Missy stared at him. "How?"

"Once. Left someone there," mumbled the Doctor. "The details are fuzzy. I wasn't quite myself at the time."

"A _Shanir_ power," she said in an accusatory hiss. "You used a sodding _Shanir_ power, didn't you? And here I've been wasting my time with a transdimensional chronofluorescence lattice."

"I... I don't know. Possibly." It wasn't anything he liked to think about.

"Well, can you do it again?" Missy demanded.

"I'm not a Shanir anymore," the Doctor said defensively. "I gave all that up, remember?"

Missy rolled her eyes. "You just think you did. Though given everything you've survived in your life, you should know better by now."

"Oh, well, if it's a question of unlikely survival, then you're the one I should be asking to get us through the mirror," said the Doctor.

Missy shook her head. "Believe me, if that were one of my talents, I would have used it against you long ago."

The Doctor stood up and crossed the room to study Missy's experimental setup. "Shanir talents are nothing but trouble. Leave the mirrors alone. If the vampires are invading this universe, we'll just capture one and make it take us through to the other side."

"I doubt it will be that simple," said Missy. "But go on, surprise me."

The Doctor explained about his search program. After that, it was just a matter of waiting. Missy occupied herself with building a small arsenal of anti-vampire weapons, while the Doctor looked up information on Caramel Darkling and the walls of night in the TARDIS databanks. There wasn't much, and he ended up distracted by a million-line saga from an ancient alien civilization that purported to be a lost colony of Gallifrey.

A hoax, he decided at last, but by then the initial search results were coming up on the TARDIS scanners. It didn't take long for him to select the one he felt was the most promising: another human colony, in the same time period as the world they had just left.

"Dancla Seven," he told Missy.

"Another boring little planet." She offered the Doctor a crossbow. "Primitive but effective. Even if the neurotoxin on the tip fails, a steel bolt through the heart will stop most things. A step up from a rock, don't you think?"

The Doctor gave her a withering glare, but accepted the crossbow along with a quiver of bolts, which he slung over his shoulder. "Stop" wasn't the same as "kill". Vampires were incredibly resilient. As he was out of holy water balloons, a crossbow would have to do. It would be useless against one of the giant-sized king vampires, but as far as he knew, he had destroyed the last one many lifetimes ago in another universe. No doubt Missy had far more lethal weaponry tucked up her sleeves, but he didn't bother to ask. "Fine. Let's go."

* * *

 **Author's note:** On hiatus for NaNoWriMo. I hope to resume working on this in January 2017.


	6. Through the Haunted Mirror

She was ancient. She was a child. She was born knowing what the Family knew, lifetimes of memory given meaning by the bond between parent and child, between sister and brother. They were all gone now. Her mind filled with silence where once she heard the voices that guided her purpose. Alone now, she waited by the threshold, where the portal was cracked open: not enough to pass through, just enough for a single visitor who knew what he was looking for to find her.

He came to see her once a year, as marked on some calendar only he could comprehend — the anniversary of her exile. While he was there, time moved again, if only in the transience of his visit. He never said anything, no matter how she pleaded to be set free.

And then he stopped.

She waited for his return, that being all she knew. Peeking through the sliver of a crack, she caught glimpses of the universe she remembered, but never the same scene twice. Darkness, more darkness, and darkness speckled with the light from distant galaxies — only rarely did she see any hint of life. Even then, no one ever saw her. Sometimes they saw her shadow, or they saw her balloon, a wisp of color out of the corner of their eyes.

Then even the balloon was gone. It had only been a ghost of a balloon, but now it wasn't even that — a memory of red, and then nothing at all. Her form, stolen from a human girl, was barely more real than the balloon, but it was all she had left. She sat on the threshold, still waiting, but no one came for her. There was no way back. She waited, and did not die, though she came of a mayfly race that lived no longer than a few turns around their native sun. She persisted in her waiting, in her memories. Only hope died.

It wasn't life, she thought. Not here, where time was so broken that age no longer meant anything. She lost pieces of herself in fits and starts, now here, now gone. Her balloon. Her last memory of her father. Her first memory of her mother. Her shoes. Then three toes from her left foot.

She took off her socks and stared down at her mismatched feet, wiggling the remaining toes in the faint sliver of light that came through the portal. She couldn't open the door to leave. But what if she left the portal and ventured deeper into the darkness? She didn't know what was there, or whether anything was there at all. For all she knew, each step farther away from the threshold could accelerate her decay. In the immeasurable span of hours or years that she spent in this contemplation, she lost a fourth toe.

That was enough. The fear of the unknown which had kept her frozen in place crumbled under the horror of this incremental disintegration. The girl jumped to her feet. "I'm not staying here."

No one answered her. Her thoughts echoed against the confines of her own head and came back, distorted and mocking. _Not staying, not staying_.

"I'm going, now," she declared, but she didn't leave, not yet. She picked a thread loose from her sock and tied it to the silver frame of the portal. She turned and set forth into the deeper darkness, carefully unraveling the sock as she went.

The ground was solid under her bare feet, smooth and cold as polished stone. She wondered if someone had built this place. If so, who had ventured outside the universe to pave a floor? Or was this the worn surface of a forgotten planet? She craned her neck back, staring upwards, but found nothing but more darkness. She shivered, but held onto her thread and continued walking.

One thread ran out, then another, and another. Piece by piece, she unraveled every piece of cloth she wore, and still there was nothing but utter darkness. Shivering in the void, the thought came that even if she unraveled hair and skin and flesh as she had cloth, it would not be enough. She would be as lost as ever. She had found nothing because there was nothing to find. Twisting the last end of thread around a finger, she crouched down with her arms wrapped around her knees. She was afraid to go on, but there was no use in returning, either. Finally, she lay down on the ground and dozed off into a fitful sleep.

She woke to a warm, sweet scent that made her think of bakeries, of fresh bread and biscuits, cakes and pies. Most of it had been a dream, but something lingered in her nostrils. "That's impossible. There's nothing here."

Her own voice gave her the lie. _She_ was here. Why couldn't there be other things as well? She closed her eyes against the darkness and sniffed deeply. The Family's olfactory senses were far sharper than human, despite the form she wore, and she knew that this was no figment of her imagination. Mesmerized by hope, she dropped her thread and followed the faint trace of that scent. It led her further into the darkness, but this time, the darkness shaded almost imperceptibly into mere dimness. Against the dimness stood the blocky outline of a building, all right angles and straight lines, the details obscured in shadow.

 _Time Lord_ , she thought, remembering who had trapped her here. Time Lords must have built this place. Her eager steps slowed at the realization. Not salvation, then.

 _You are wise to be wary. That is the House, the Highlord's House, where the floors are warmed by the hides of foolish children._ The voice slid into the empty space where her Family once spoke.

The girl gasped and spun around, but saw that she was still alone. "Who are you? How dare you speak to me so?"

 _A friend?_ suggested the voice.

"I don't have any friends."

 _Family, then._

"You're not Family!"

 _Not by blood, no, but maybe, maybe we can help each other. Isn't that what's important?_

The girl hesitated. She couldn't leave this realm, not by herself, and the one who had sent her here would never free her. Then again, "Whoever lives in that building might help me, too."

 _Or they might steal your soul and use your bones to patch the wall,_ scoffed the voice.

"Why should I believe you? You won't even let me see you. Are you a scaredy-cat?"

 _Silly imp. You don't even know who or what you should fear, do you?_ The voice cackled. _Go on, then. Try your luck. Walk into that house!_

"I will. Watch me!" The girl took a bold step towards the dim silhouette, then another. On the third step, she stopped. She stared at the building again, and gulped. In a low voice, she admitted, "There's something odd about that place. It looks... wrong."

 _It's a very special house; it exists in every realm in the Chain of Creation. Its foundations are rooted in the first universe. You're not a time-sensitive, so your mind is disturbed by the angles_.

"Are you a Time Lord?"

The voice laughed again. _No, but they are what I am, even if they have forgotten that inconvenient fact._

"What are you, then?"

 _Come closer, and maybe I'll tell you. Please,_ the voice wheedled, _I mean you no harm._

Despite herself, the girl turned, taking a step towards the psychic tug of that mental voice. After three steps, she stopped again. What if this was a trap? What if the voice belonged to an enemy?

 _You have no need to fear me, not when you have two strong young legs, and I can't move at all._ In the space of just a few sentences, the voice had already become familiar, a comforting presence in the void behind the mirror.

The girl longed to believe it, craved an end to loneliness, and allowed herself to be seduced into trust. "What... what do you mean?"

 _Closer, come closer, and you will see for yourself_.

"All right, I will." The girl told herself that it was better to know things than not to know them. She followed the direction of the voice, far enough that the house was no longer visible behind her, and farther yet, until she reached the end of the world. The world ended at a wall, lit from within by its own faint light. It began at the floor and rose up as far as she could see, splitting the void into _here_ and _there_. The girl shivered at the sight, struck by the same uncanny wrongness she had felt upon seeing the Highlord's house.

As she stared, a face formed from the swirling shadows that danced across the surface of the wall. Eyes bright as remote stars opened and met hers. _Ah, there you are, child_.

"What... what is this?"

 _This is the Great Wall of Rassilon, built on the withered edge of a forgotten universe, where time has run out. It marks the end of your reality_.

"Rassilon? Who's that?"

 _Listen: Rassilon Highlord, a proud man was he. The People held he in his hand, by right of birth and might. Wealth and power had he, and knowledge deeper than the Sea of Stars..._ The voice recited the words, formal as a school lesson. It spoke of Rassilon's ambition and greed, of how he had betrayed his god and his people, abandoning their war with the Ancient Enemy in order to fulfill his own dreams of empire. _Then went my lord Rassilon to his brother and consort, Zurvan Dreamweaver, and said, 'Dance out the souls of the faithful.' And that hour came, when gathered were the People for the Feast of Closing..._

"The what?"

 _The history of the People is a history of failure — loss after loss, retreat down threshold world after threshold world, down the Chain of Creation. When a realm was about to fall to the Ancient Enemy, the Great Ones among our kind swept the remnant worlds, reaping the last harvest of life before they led the Swarm to the next realm. The energy shared at the Feast gave us the strength to endure the long war._

The girl nodded. Her Family, too, fed on life, if on a smaller scale. "So what happened at the Feast?"

 _Then danced Zurvan the Traitor before the People, harvesting the souls of the most powerful to give into the hand of the Highlord..._

"What did he do with all those souls?"

 _Then did the Highlord bind them, body and soul, into a matrix which stood as an impenetrable barrier between universes. For eons has Caramel Darkling gnawed at Rassilon's wall, hungering for expansion, yet unable to break through..._

The girl stared at the wall, searching for signs of damage, but not finding any.

 _Meanwhile, the Highlord built his empire, infinite and eternal as he would have it, blinding his followers with the glory of his vision. Those few who yet opposed him were hunted down with bowships that fired bolts mighty enough to incapacitate even a Great One. In the heat of battle, old kinships were buried and the Ancient Enemy forgotten._ The voice paused, then continued in a more conversational tone, _And the end of that war was the beginning of a long peace. Some would say stagnation, but let us be charitable. After all, it's over._

"Over?"

 _Well, nothing lasts forever, does it? Nibble, nibble, bite by bite, the souls were eaten out of the wall. So, in the interests of self-preservation, some of us thought we'd best get out while we could. Of course, that does nothing to solve the problem in the long run, but it's a start..._

"I don't understand."

 _In simpler terms, then: I can get you out of this nightmare of a universe, but first you have to get me out of this wall._

"How?"

 _It's not difficult. The power that binds me here rules by right of name and blood. Change that, and I'm free. So, touch your hand to mine and swear the oath of kinship with me. Accept me into your Family._

The girl saw a shape like a handprint press itself into the pattern of the wall. The face above it hinted at a nod, the eyes locked onto the girl's gaze. She slowly lifted her own hand and reached out, then stopped. "How do I know this isn't a trick?"

 _You're full of suspicion, aren't you? It is a trick, but it's not being played on you, little imp. The oath goes both ways._

The girl thought about that. Then she thought that no one else here had offered anything better. There was always the house, but the more she thought about it, the worse the dimly-glimpsed images sat in her mind. And it would be good not to be alone. "All right."

Hand touched hand... And then she was gone, and there was a new, girl-shaped shadow on the wall. Dozens of new eyes blinked from within the outline. A mouth opened in a soundless scream.

 _What's happening? Where am I?_ The girl's panicked voice was only another in the chorus of thoughts trapped in the wall.

 _Calm yourself, Granddaughter-of-Mine_ , came the voice in her head. This time, it split around the edges, as if multiple voices overlapped imperfectly. _You just need to...walk. That's right. One foot in front of the other. This way._

The eyes faded and closed, all except for one pair in the head and one pair set in the side of the right foot. Caught in profile, the shadow walked along the wall, still caught in its surface, but freed to move within it.

 _Wh-where are we going?_

 _The way out. There has been a breach, you see. The threshold world, hidden, forbidden — no more. Caramel Darkling presses through into your universe there. We're just hitching a ride._

She didn't understand at first. Then she realized that the wall was growing thinner. She had a sense of a suffocating presence watching her through the wall. Then she came to a place where the wall was torn open, the edges shriveled and curled back in flaking sheets. Her next footstep wobbled, came down on nothing, and the section of wall that held her shape disintegrated. The girl cried out, but no sound emerged, and then she was drowning in a heavy, sickly-sweet ooze that was almost flesh-like in its consistency. A wave convulsed through it, carrying her helplessly outwards...

After a dizzying, measureless time, the girl was cast up on a dry, rocky hillside. When she tried to sit up, she found that she had nothing to sit up with.

 _Keep yourself together_ , warned the voice inside her head. _At the moment, we're nothing but a psychic amalgam held together in a remnant of Wall-matrix._

The girl imagined herself nodding, in submission if not comprehension. She let her new grandmother drift them across the hillside. She had been disembodied before, and her elders had found her a host body before. _Can I be a little girl again? I liked being a little girl._

 _We'll see_. They drifted higher into the air, swooping over a bleak, ruined landscape.

This was a civilized world, thought the girl, seeing the broken remains of buildings, roads, and fields. But no smoke, no noise of machinery. The girl saw empty vehicles, many of them cracked or crushed, littering the ground. A moist, sticky gray film clung to every surface. As she watched, humanoid figures rose from the grayness, oozing and slithering towards them.

 _Haunts!_ hissed the voice in her head. _They can sense us._

 _What do they want?_ The girl let the other sweep her back and away.

 _Fresh meat, what else?_ They flew onward, outpacing the haunts. _This area is too close to the breach; it's fallen to the enemy. But... ah, here we go_.

The air cleared as they passed some invisible boundary. The taint that the girl hadn't even known was there was gone. Her grandmother followed a thin, winding road that ran through a dark, alien forest and ended in what had once been a settlement of some kind.

 _Evacuated_ , said her grandmother. _This whole planet must have been evacuated. Luckily for us, they didn't take everyone away._

 _But there's no one here._ The girl looked around, puzzled, seeing no sign of intelligent life. Then as they touched ground again, her grandmother directed her gaze to the headstones lined up in neat rows in front of them. _Oh._

 _Frontier planets being what they are, chances are you'll be in luck and find a young girl somewhere in here_.

 _But what use is that? She'll be dead!_ protested the girl. Even so, she scanned the gravestones, checking the dates and names, glad to find them written in a language not too far from what she knew. _Here's one_.

 _Go on in, then!_

The girl felt herself shoved headfirst into the dirt. At first it resisted her passage; then, with a jittering discontinuity in her consciousness, she rippled downwards into the darkness. An alien force gripped her and bound her essence to what had once been a human child, using a loosened thread of time to trace its pattern back to when it had been whole. Changed, possessed, reformed — she was spat back from the grave.

Overwhelmed by the sensation of being corporeal once more, the girl howled and laughed, spinning in place and dancing for joy.

"Ah, the exuberance of youth." The dry, ancient voice came from what looked like a mound of dirt that rose up from the ground. It seemed to shrug, and clods and bits of rock shook free, leaving behind what might have been a hunched, humanoid figure. "Come along. We have work to do."

The girl let herself whirl one more time before she stopped, standing on one foot as she peered at the other. "What work, Grandmother-of-mine?"

"People to see, things to do, a Highlord to thwart, and an apocalyptic battle to arrange. The usual." The dirt-smeared face cracked open into a smile. "It'll be the most fun we've had in millions of years."

As it turned out, her new grandmother had rather lower standards of 'fun' than the girl.

"Playing house!" the girl grumbled as she was tasked with scavenging a long list of supplies and furnishings from the abandoned settlement and bringing them to the house her grandmother had established as their base of operations. The old woman was especially taken with mirrors, much to the girl's bemusement. How many did you need? It wasn't as if your reflection changed from mirror to mirror.

"Ah, but a mirror can hold much more than a mere reflection," her grandmother explained, "when you're a Shanir."

"Is that what you are? What is a Shanir, exactly?"

"Well, for one thing, it means that we can lay out a boundary that the haunts won't cross. It may not last as long as Rassilon's wall, but it should be enough for our purposes." Her grandmother arranged a sequence of hand mirrors outside the house, lined up to face each other. There was a flare of power that the girl could feel in her bones, and then a shimmer of psychic energy rose up around them. "If we're careful, we can draw on the power of the Enemy without being noticed."

"You keep saying 'we', but I don't know how to do any of that." The girl pouted and drew out a metal-pronged slingshot that she had found in one of the houses. She slotted in a spherical pellet and sent it flying into a neighbor's window with a satisfying thunk, leaving a web of fractures in the shatterproof glass.

"Patience, child. We each do what we can. You have the advantage of mobility."

"Well, you're old; naturally I can run faster than you!"

"No, no. I mean, it won't be long before we're shooting you across the cosmos like one of those pellets of yours."

The girl boggled. "Really? How? Do you have a spaceship?"

The old woman cackled. "Haven't you been listening? It's all done with mirrors."

But this, too, turned out to be a disappointment.

"Fetch this, fetch that," muttered the girl as she was catapulted across the galaxy from mirror to mirror while her grandmother turned the house into a nightmarish cross between an alchemist's lab and a geometrical impossibility, using an eclectic collection of alien hardware. Sometimes, though, the object of her grandmother's desire was a living creature. The girl liked it best when they were sentient and pleaded for mercy. She smiled at their despair once they discovered that her grandmother had none. The girl watched in delight as the old woman efficiently drained her victims of their memories and their life force.

"Sadistic brat," grumbled her grandmother in disapproval. Nevertheless, she shared the harvested energies with the girl, because they were Family. "Have some respect."

"Why? They're sheep, and we're wolves. They're flies, and we're spiders," chanted the girl in a childish sing-song.

"Spider, your head!" spat her grandmother. "You're a little fish, and the sea is full of bigger fish. Speaking of which, I've managed to track two of them down in a suitable timestream."

"Them? Them, who?" She crept up to look at the mirror her grandmother was currently concentrating her attentions on. The surface showed a barren landscape, a small speck of a man standing in the distance. "Who's that?"

"Them — two of the Three, potentially. This one calls himself the Doctor."

"The Doctor?" the girl gasped. "No! He'll kill me if I attack him. Or worse!"

"No, no, we're not going to attack him. We're going to help him. Or at least keep him out of the Highlord's greedy claws. He's sent the Dreamweaver to fetch the pair of them, but we'll make sure you get there a step ahead."

"I'm not going near him."

"You won't have to. All the Doctor needs is a small nudge. He'll take care of the rest."

And so he did. The girl ran immediately for her grandmother's portal, the screams of the vampire ringing in her ears.

Her grandmother caught her as she emerged, squeezing her in a comforting embrace. "Hush, now, you're back, no need to panic."

The girl shuddered, burying her face in her grandmother's chest. "He saw me."

"That's fine, that's good. It means it'll be easier to lure him here."

"Here!" screeched the girl, horrified.

"No point in dawdling while the universe disintegrates around our ears. You can look for yourself if you don't believe me."

The girl didn't need to look. She had seen enough already to know that the corruption of the ancient enemy was spreading across the planet. Given time, it would force its way through to other worlds, wherever a reflective surface could be found. And after that... the girl shuddered. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Help him fulfill his destiny, of course. Help both of them. And with two out of the Three in our grasp, we'll have the advantage over the Highlord, curse his rotten little hearts." Her grandmother patted her on the back. "Don't worry. Granny will protect you. Now take this—"

The girl looked down at the paper bag her grandmother pushed at her. Before she could open it, her grandmother laid her hand over her fingers.

"Don't. It's a gift for them. Give it to the Doctor, or the Master, whichever is easier for you."

"'The Master'?"

"Or 'Missy', as she's calling herself these days."

"She's also a Time Lord?" The girl shivered, clutching the bag to her chest, trying not to think what kind of 'gift' her grandmother intended for a Time Lord. If a Time Lord was dangerous (and they were!), then this could only be something deadlier. The brown paper suddenly seemed thin and frail.

"Yes, of course. If anything, she's more... volatile... than the Doctor, so do be careful, child."

"I understand." The girl nodded jerkily, bracing herself for the encounter.

Her grandmother sent her out again, this time across the continent rather than across the galaxy. Winter was in full force there, a clear sky blazing over a dazzling field of white. The girl, who had popped back into existence through the reflection in an icy puddle, hugged her arms around herself, the bag tucked away inside her jacket while her hands shrank inside her sleeves. She looked around, finding herself in another abandoned settlement. She muttered, "Where are you, Doctor?"

The air was biting in its coldness and her breath came out in visible puffs. The chill worked its way into her lungs and she wanted to shout at her grandmother for sending her too early, in order not to miss her targets. Well, then, she would find somewhere warmer to wait. The girl strode to the nearest empty house and yanked open the door.

Then screamed and leaped back again as a gray-faced haunt snarled in her face. She turned to run, only to find doors opening all up and down the street. More haunts oozed out from the doorways, all of them turning their heads towards her.

"Oh." She was surrounded. "...hell!"

* * *

 **Author's notes:** The quotes about Rassilon's betrayal are adapted from the story about Gerridon and the Fall in "Godstalk". Since Rassilon was already pretty much immortal, I had to adjust his motivation. And yeah, apparently ancient vampires are a type of Shanir! (Well, vampires are constantly retconned in Doctor Who lore, so what's another variation or two?)


End file.
